22 FK-ing BOLD.

A lot of hype usually spoils the movie for me. And so I went to watch 22 Female Kottayam with a whole lot of scepticism. Also watching it at Chennai’s Ega theatre, a  second show, with howling men all around me isn’t really the best ambience. Most bold dialogues in the movie were hooted at, a lot of good scenes met with loud cynicism. But with all this display of male chauvinism around me, when the movie ended, I walked out many inches taller, my head held high and very very liberated.

Hats off to Aashiq Abu for making a movie that is the need of our times, for making a movie that is from the start to the end carried off entirely by the woman lead, for writing ‘her’ name first in the titles, for never even trying to make it seem anything other than a woman-centric movie, for silencing at the end, all the male rants around me.

It is just surprising that all the reviews that were doing the rounds about 22FK, most of the people who watched the movie, termed it good, and then ‘shocking’. Yes, the movie upsets you, but given the bold statement the movie is, there was nothing shocking. It was to say the least, liberating. And for all the flak I may receive for this statement, the movie was a revelry of womanhood, her body, her lives, her revenge, hers.

Beginning with the powerful “Chilane” song, the movie centres around the life of the level-headed ‘Kottayamkari Nasrani’ nurse Tessa Abraham (Rima Kallingal), from her trying to migrate to Canada, falling in love, getting brutally deceived, and then coming back to exact her revenge. Yes, the story line sounds a lot clichéd, I know. But what makes Aashiq Abu’s movie stand out, is the freshness with which this cliché is portrayed, there is no melodrama, no guilt or ‘moral’ pangs associated (like a jail inmate in the film prophesies) and is riveting throughout.

Also, for a change, we have women checking out men, a women’s jail portrayed as not pitiful but powerful, and a woman exacting revenge in a way most of us have often felt is the only “right” way for a crime that is repeated often and any number of times, and every single day, to the minute I am keying in these words, a crime that stems from the arrogance of ‘being a man’. To every man who has looked down at a woman and told her you can never win over me for “You are only a woman”, here is a reminder. In your face, and powerful.

Reading other reviews, the moral stance adopted by many leave me disgusted. That the movie does not respect women, the movie is in no way progressive, that it makes the woman use her body to exact her revenge and so on. When most of us cheered our “heroes” thrashing villains and walking into the sunset in slow motion and triumph, how come that was not “his” way of using “his” body (of course, the “hero” was a man of intelligence, too!). When will we ever tide over our obsession and puritanical notions associated with the woman’s body, and solely with the woman’s?

And there was also criticism of the movie having a lot of masala, of it being purely “commercial”. How come we never heard “masala” and “commercial” being talked about as fervently when the heroine wore skimpy clothes and danced around trees, battled eyelids and pouted, or heroines performed item numbers, were generally epitomes of goodness, well-clad and well behaved and high scorers of the society’s moral marksheet. Of course, the movie has “masala”, is a “commercial” hit, and entertaining in its own way, but if it has driven home that message which the filmmaker wanted to, if the meal was grand and fiery, would you now complain about the salt and pepper?

That is not to say the movie is without faults or is a milestone for Malayalam cinema. It is not a milestone. It is a necessity, a breath of fresh air, a new flavour, yet another important chapter in the New Wave that the cinema of my land is witnessing.

Movies like 22FK are needed every once in a while if not more often till there is nothing shocking or surprising about them. And so are performances like Rima’s and Fahad’s. Rima Kallingal has given to Tessa Abraham more than her all, and never, at any point, has she let down a movie that is meant to ride to success on the shoulders of the female lead. From being quiet and sweet, to being the woman in love, to suffering physical and mental torment, to finding her strength and emerging triumphant, Rima essays a spectrum of emotions with remarkable brilliance. Fahad Fazil pulls off another brilliant performance, and asserts with 22FK that he is in a different league altogether. While much praise is being heaped on Rima, the movie wouldn’t have been what it is without Fahad’s tempered and subtle acting.

Even with all the questions about the film’s authenticity doing the rounds, this movie needs to be praised for its sheer guts, it needs to be promoted for encouraging people to go to theatres to watch good movies without big banners and superstar tags, movies which acknowledge that women are more than glamour dolls and tired mothers.

Aashiq Abu and crew, well, you just set a new high for the forgotten concept of “heroine” in Malayalam cinema. A brilliantly crafted, beautifully evoked, bold high.

Adaminte Makan Abu

Not a reviewer really, but for this movie which was beyond words, all i could do was to write:


There are some movies that leave you elevated; some that leave you gaping at the sheer brilliance of the human psyche; some which make you cry; some where tears of laughter roll down your cheeks; some that tug at the heartstrings and leave lumps in your throat long after you have walked out of the cinema hall. There are movies which have out-of-the-world storylines, movies without a fault in their screenplay, movies with gorgeous cinematography, movies which set new standards at the box-office, movies which are masala pot-boilers. There are movies which ride on the shoulders of superstars, movies which sweep popular awards across segments, there are movies that become cults, epics, history. And once in a while, and very rarely, there comes a movie like Adaminte Makan Abu. And all of the above labels cease to matter.
To get to Abu, one has to travel only a short distance - only turn back and look at life, again. And yet in turning back, lies miles, that go deep, into the earth, into hearts, into a village set in the interiors of Kerala’s Malabar region. If the description were to match today’s travelogue style, one would call it a pristine, quiet, sleepy village. But the village is anything but sleepy – it is where plants have life, people converse with animals, where grass rustles and listens, where life throbs, not necessarily thrives, in forgotten ways, where Abu and his wife Aiysu cannot sleep for their dreams of making the holy Haj pilgrimage need to be kept alive without rest. Where Abu, after travelling long hours and without a wink of sleep, comes home to his wife, and yet cannot take a nap because the dream beckons.
The film opens with things of the everyday – a jackfruit tree, a reclining chair, prayer beads, a trunk with crushed notes, some bottles of perfume, a home in the long embrace of poverty, poverty without its accompanying misery. And after a rickety bus ride, the ageing Abu, seller of perfumes, follower of Islam, father of an unthankful son, dreamer of holy bliss, steps down and wobbles unsteadily, slowly, dripping with pathos. And never in the recent past has a movie “hero” made an entrance as powerful or grand, straight into the heart of the viewer.
In the wee hours of the morning, chants of “Allahu Akbar”, ‘God is Great’, bring alive a predominantly Muslim village. Against a telling pitch black darkness, a white mosque beams light, its minarets and windows glow in red, yellow and blue hues. In the dark, the frail, scholarly, ‘Ustaad’, the village oracle with powers of divine communion, washes himself. And through one lighted window with the typical dome, we see prayers being offered. Through that window we enter Salim Ahmed’s world – where Muslims are essentially human beings, a chatty rational tea-stall owner, a cobbler trying to sew and patch life’s little injustices or a travel agency manager who does not indulge in visa frauds or scams to live up to his typecast role. Where the world’s views on Islamophobia and Jihad are touched upon by the mere utterance of “bin Laden” and that too in a lighter vein. Though Ustaad ascends the stairs to his room, we do not enter it. Only the chatty Hyder enters the room with a glass of tea and admiration, and later, in the film, to barge in to seek solace in the pitch of darkness.
Through such a window, we also enter the graceful Aiysumma’s home, as she gets ready to offer her morning prayers, to voice her only plea to the Almighty. Neglected by their only son, Aiysumma though is a woman with ready smiles, warm eyes and is a reservoir of strength to her husband. And like her husband, she deposits her meagre earnings in their treasure box beneath their sleepless cot.
There is this scene when Abu closes the windows against the world, to enter their private world, to open the chest of their dreams, and count their earnings of twelve years. As Abu and Aiysu straighten out folded currency notes and begin the countdown to their dream, money gets its most powerful portrayal. We have seen wads of currency notes being flashed across the eye, notes being thrown in the air, huge amounts being stacked into sacks. But this is essentially the value of currency notes, measured in the denomination of dreams it can buy.

There is another scene in which Abu and Aiysu spend the entire evening examining with utmost care their passports. They lose themselves in admiring two passport-size photographs, an anachronism in an age where endless photographs of mundane chores, besides that of exotic holidays and birthday bashes, are uploaded by the hour, and deserve the time-span of a ‘click’, extendable upto a ‘like’ or at most a ‘comment’. And also in an age when newborn babies learn quick to pose for photographs, Abu shudders at the ‘click’ of the camera.
Abu and Aiysu sell their last belongings to scrape together money to visit the Holy Land. The scene in which Aiysu bids adieu to her cattle is poignant. “I have never treated them as mere beasts,” she tells her husband, with tears welling up in her eyes. The couple go around the village bidding goodbye, asking for forgiveness of their past sins, and ready themselves for a deep-rooted dream. Will Abu and Aiysu finally manage to realise their dream? Sitting under what seems like the “tree of life” against a setting sun, even the Ustaad, who predicts to precision and who can foretell even the grievances of visitors from faraway lands, does not know.
To help the old couple realise their dream, two villagers come forward – a Hindu and a Christian. Though this aspect is never once emphasised in the film, it is the subtlety on which the writer-director scores. And similarly, there are no monologues, no high philosophy on human values or secularism. No big deal is made of an old couple holding hands, of friendly gestures, of warm embraces. There are poignant smiles without close-ups, some warm words without background score, silent eyes that speak volumes. Just the way we know and understand, without an effort, just like what we call life.
The cintematography is lyrical, the music score rings with the sweetness of rustic jackfruits. For a story that speaks of ground realities with roots that run deep into the earth, there are no over-the-top shots, no bird’s or worm’s eye-views, there is just one humane view, which the lens faithfully portrays.
The range of characters the film presents are all with essential goodness, all who understand the language of human hearts. And every actor, even in minor roles, deserves applause for etching to perfection a creator’s vision of a simple, nearer to life world, or rather, village.
However three persons deserve nothing short of a standing ovation – director-writer Salim Ahmed, actor Salim Kumar and actress Zarina Wahab, and in that order.
Salim Kumar won the country’s top most honour for his portrayal of Abu. But what he has indeed won, he did without competition, without a jury panel, without room for debate: the heart of every single viewer. In the portrayal of a frail, powerless old man, the actor exuded utmost power. A million subtleties swim in the eyes of Abu – innocence untarnished by age, pathos inflicted by life, faith unmoved by setbacks, a dream that leads him to wobble on.
Zarina Wahab as the meek Aiysu supports more than her ageing husband’s character. She evokes poignancy and warmth seemingly without an effort, a stellar portrayal of a subdued character.
Writer-director Salim Ahmed emerges successful on every score because when a story is told from the heart, it finds a million echoes across souls. And a million words could be strung together to write about Salim’s labour of love, but at the end of it, I realise writing this review has been futile. To know Adaminte Makan Abu, one only needs eyes that can see reflections, ears that can hear the murmur of grass and the echoes of prayers, and a heart that can hold dreams, and whose door is left only slightly ajar.
When against a pitch dark early morning, Salim Ahmed’s ‘Adaminte Makan’ walks to the mosque, we realise he just walked from our hearts, after planting a flame of hope there. Adam’s son, blessed being.

rain boats

Today I think
of green,
rain-drenched fields,
flowing into
deep-blue horizons.
viewed from
sleepy dark compartments
of early morning trains
the neck anxious,
preening,
moist eyes,
wind in the hair.

the familiar showers
that drip all day
from tiled roofs
wet feet
on cracked floors.
and there is this place
where two rows
of tiled roofs meet
where the water
not just drips
but flows and flows
in one steady stream
long after the rains have stopped.

it is here
that the children
tear pages from
the past year's
notebooks
and set
their paper boats
on sail
attempting
to venture out
along with their boats,
stepping on
slippery snakes
that creep in,
as the silver-haired glance
of their grandmother
drifts.

today,
as the rain falls,
the grandmother's photo
sits atop the rusty,
faded blue fridge.
the little boy
whose paper boats
were the rain
and ran wild and wild
around the old house,
climbed walls and trees,
is many miles away
stumps remain
of the trees
he loved
to climb
and the house silent,
so silent,
it is the silence
that gathers dust
on furniture,
the book shelves
the memories.

and somewhere,
along the rain-years
rivalry
grew into love,
enmity into
a certain endless fondness,
jealousy into
pride,
admiration, love.

the rain falls and falls,
not growing old
over the years,
the memories.
but has it grown
quieter,
sadder, and lonely,
how will i know?
for the rain
will never
be the same again
without
the paper boats
set to sail
by the little boy
i have grown
to love so much.

(my kid brother turned 21 today, and i am still trying to come to grips with the fact that there is no turning back of the clock now. somewhere, i miss that lovely, naughty boy i grew up with, whom i hate-love-tolerated then. but today i also know, we'll never really be old enough to always grow up with each other)

the day after slumber

it's almost been two years since i wrote that last post, and everytime i looked at this space, and read all that i had written, i thought i never would or could write again......and when some friends asked me why i never wrote again, i said i didnt know, there was nothing to write about, life was just one day piled on another, nothing interesting....not that life got any better now, but here i am, keying in, and well, the words seem to be coming, though reluctantly....for they have been quiet for a long time now.... maybe i will write oftner now.... i read about how blogging is losing its charm for an FB-toxicated world...but what do i care for this world anyway..... so i got my blog this new look, and am sitting here, keying in dear words with love...... i like the new template, and when i log in now, it's like coming into a newly shifted house, a new city.... it's new and nice, like how new cities are at first, also in the end, when you have to say your goodbyes.... i began writing this blog in delhi, i hated living there, but now i do miss the walks around delhi's melancholy streets..... chennai is nice, i dont hate living here, but there are days when i wish there was more space to walk around, there was a purana qila or a lodhi garden that transports you to another era...a quiet escapede..... also i long for delhi's bustling markets, shopping, my walks around CP and janpath...... my solitary evenings on the hostel terrace, sipping green tea, listening to music from the nearby gurudwara, watching the sunset, and sometimes pleasant conversations with a fellow hosteller.... guess we never leave any city completely, when you finally pack your bags, load your cartons with memories and books and coffee mugs, and with all the fretting, the bills to settle, the documents to fill in, however hard you try you forget something, you leave some things behind, a novel, a favourite top, a faded jeans, a piece of your heart...... and when you unpack in a new city, you unearth stuff you imagined you had lost, like love for the city that took you in anyway.....and then you go on living, and on evenings such as these, the memories just come back, and then there is nothing left to do than write......

ഇവിടെ, ഇപ്പോള്‍

ഈ ഭ്രാന്തിനു
തുരുമ്പിച്ച ചങ്ങലകളുടെ
മുഴക്കം പോലുമില്ല

on a rainy day, the memories are wet

in a room that smells of wet clothes, hung to dry on a yellow rope dotted with grime, and secured by clips, dead, if you have seen mothers who hold children who have gone to sleep forever, for the winds don't come in.... the windows are shut against the rain, rain that tickles down the wire mesh, a reminder, but there is none to answer the call.... the dampness spreads across the pale walls, and up from the ground, the curtains are wet too, the rusted old fan, turns and turns and turns, there is water falling, not lashing, not painful, only falling, a trickle of air.... secret letters of love, guilt, blotted by tears that roll down unwashed, unpowdered cheeks, salty letters in black ink that spreads on the paper, smeared now with secret guilt, hidden passions, honest scars which you can deny later when the wounds shall heal, the bandage shall go and leave no mark, but hidden too long and too quick, like doors shut on noise and light, maybe, only maybe and rarely, develop into pus, but for now it is wise to cover it up with a bandage..... like the lichen that grows beneath your clean white palm and the old wall now silent, so quiet, like the talkative grandmother who was dressed in white and wore those black rimmed glasses and there was an argument about which side to place her head that will not now be restless, will not argue, but the chin was up, and she was powdered again in cream sandalwood powder, the floor of the old house was wet that day and mother said it was from the nearby pond, that there was water beneath all this, so when she was buried, maybe she floated or swam away to some safe haven, she did not come back to tell her grandchild this last tale of adventure, i know the grandchild waited.... but weren't we talking about the lichen, that soft and green, its tender tentacles, a growth that spreads on memories that will soon be hidden, and under the softness you can still feel the hard red stone, firm still, but no outward traces.... like the reflections we left on our favourite waters, the stones we threw in must sure be there still, when now will we hold hands and go in looking for round white pebbles, boats made from grandfather's old newspapers and father's office documents, a wooden doll, a silver anklet, is it still there.... but our reflections are now different, or is it because the river has grown old....

മാറ്റം

മാറ്റം അനിവാര്യം ആണെന്ന് നീ പറയുന്നു
നിന്നിലെ മാറ്റങ്ങള്‍
കിടക്കവിരിയില്‍
ചുവപ്പ് ചിത്രങ്ങള്‍
വരകാരില്ലലോ ...